Taking Control

by Jen Frederick

  “You should go to work. Didn’t you say that your guy isn’t happy with you? What’s his name? Louis?” She trails a hand down the rack of perfectly tailored suits.

  “Louis can suck an egg. I pay him a fortune. He should be happy I’m not in the office cracking the whip.” I hired Louis Durand out of B school. I had street smarts and good instincts but needed the expertise of someone who’d had an MBA. Louis was a good fit because he lacked the capital and the instincts. But I was able to glean the necessary information to make sure we didn’t run afoul of the regulatory officials. We’d made a good team, constantly searching for the next acquisition to add to my holding company.

  My thirst for widening my monetary reach has been waning since I found Tiny. In some ways, I had been completely impoverished before I met her. These days, I wanted to spend my time with her rather than in an office going over endless analyst reports with Louis.

  “He’s acting like a scorned lover, yes, but I don’t really give a damn.”

  “I’m going to work, so you might as well,” she declares. “What are you going to wear today?”

  “Dress me,” I suggest. She likes looking at my clothes. Anything that makes her happy pleases me.

  “Hmmm.” Her fine fingers smooth down a light blue suit coat in a linen and wool blend. “Tell me about your stylist. Will I meet him?”

  “Personal shopper,” I correct her. “The word stylist makes me sound like I belong on Broadway. My suits are made by a Saville Row tailor whose family has been in business since the late 1800s. Twice a year, he brings a battered Louis Vuitton trunk to the city and all of us acolytes trek to the Plaza to be measured, try on muslin prototypes, and put in our orders for the next year. I was introduced to Bakers & Henry via Frank.”

  “How’d you get to know Frank?”

  It’s immensely pleasing she’s curious. I want her to know everyone in my life and vice versa. Our lives should be so intertwined that it would take forever to untangle the threads. “I met Frank while he was grifting, selling everything from stolen wallets to, ah, other things, in an effort to feed and clothe his two younger sisters.”

  Looking at Frank now, you’d never guess that he’d walked the Boardwalk in Atlantic City lifting purses and wallets and servicing bored businessmen. He’d taught me how to dress, having an innate fashion sense that he’d been born with. He knew that clothes made all the difference to the people you did business with. Wear a suit to a drug deal and you’d get shot. Wear jeans to a boardroom and they’d laugh you out. Frank taught me that a hand-stitched suit and French cuffs could get me into places that a gun could not.

  In some ways Wall Street isn’t much different than the hustles under the boardwalk. The bills are larger and everyone smells better, but that’s about it.

  We’d both gotten out of the rat holes, but there was still sand in the crevices of our skin. Frank surmises that the amount of sand we’ve accumulated is directly responsible for all the pearls we’re shitting out—and that I must have taken on more sand than most, since my pearls are more frequent and bigger than everyone else’s.

  “Where’s Frank now?”

  “He lives in an apartment on Madison Avenue.”

  “And his sisters?”

  “One’s at NYU and the other just graduated from Columbia. She’s in grad school now, getting her MBA.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  “It is.”

  “This is different.” She’s moved on from the light blue suit to land on a heathered gray with a darker gray check. It’s definitely one of my bolder suits because of the strong contrasting lines.

  “Frank sold me on that fabric on the basis that only a man with giant balls could wear it and not be embarrassed. I was peer pressured into buying it,” I joke.

  I’m rewarded with a small chuckle. “I like it, and I think your balls are big enough to carry it off.”

  “I’m glad. My balls like you, too.”

  At her stare, my cock pulses and fills to a half erect state. She tries to suppress a smile, but the mischievous glint in her eyes reveals how much she enjoys turning me on. It’s a mutual pleasure, though. I enjoy the ache because I know the sweet release that follows will be worth it. Plus, I’d rather see her smiling because she thinks she’s torturing me than sad and grieving. She pulls the dove-gray suit down off the hanger. “Then this one today.”

  “What else?” I ask, taking the suit from her and pulling off the pants. “Or should I go commando?”

  “I like the idea of commando,” she says perversely, her hand not so inadvertently brushing against my groin.

  My groan sounds overly loud in the dressing room. “Keep doing that and I’ll bend you over that bench over there.” I jerk my head toward the padded leather bench situated at the end of the island of drawers.

  She quirks her lips and this time places her hand on my chest, tracing a fingertip down the center and stopping just above my belly button. My cock surges upward under the loosely tied towel and bobs for her attention. Her fingers delve under the fabric and close gently around the tip. With a swift twist of her hand, my knees weaken. I’m forced to place a hand against one of the shelf supports so I don’t fall over.

  “Your threats have no power,” she mocks. “You already denied me.”

  “Sweet Jesus.” I can’t stop my hips from pumping in her tight grip. “I’m already loving my punishment, if that’s what this is.”

  Turning away she lets me go. “Not really, but it is nice to know that you do want me.”

  “Is there any doubt?” I bury my face in her hair and pull her ass flush against my thick arousal.

  “You turned me down this morning.” There’s a kernel of hurt in her voice which renders me defenseless. If rousing me to the point of pain and sending me out allows her to feel more secure, I’d go out this way every day.

  “Oh, bunny, just because I don’t want to hurt you.” I lick the sensitive part of her skin where her neck and shoulder join. I’d love to put a mark there. One that everyone can see, particularly given that she wants to go to Jake’s office where a bunch of former military assholes will be tromping in and out, no doubt hitting on her every five seconds.

  She shakes her head. “Shouldn’t I be the one to decide if I’m too sore?”

  “Sure,” I say, but it’s my job to protect her from everything, even herself. I keep that sentiment to myself. She wouldn’t appreciate it.

  With a half-smile, she turns to give me a slight squeeze and then kisses me lightly. “I’m done torturing you. Let’s get you dressed.”

  After kissing her back, I reach around her for a pair of boxer briefs and start to dress, pulling on the slacks and then searching for a shirt. “You’re probably right. Louis is turning into a shrew at work since I’ve started coming in later and leaving earlier.”

  Tiny hesitates in the act of handing me a dark blue dress shirt with white stripes and a burgundy tie speckled with tiny triangles of white. “Am I keeping you from something important? Are you losing money because of me?”

  Shoving my arms into the shirt, I root around for a brown belt. “No. I’ve been exactly where I wanted to be since I met you. I think we both know I’ve got enough money to see us through two lifetimes of winters.”

  Money will never be a problem for either of us.

  Accepting my reassurances, she nods. “You don’t have to change your life for me.”

  “Why not? I expect you to change for me. I want you to live with me, accept my gifts, allow me to provide for you. It’s reasonable for you to expect me to change as well. I want our lives to be different. That’s the point of being together. You are now my life, and I want to see evidence of you here.” I wave at the empty shelves and drawers.

  “I love how your romantic gestures are all declarations. Accept my gifts, dammit,” she mocks. Gesturing for me to stand upright, she starts putting me together, which, unfortunately for the tight fit of my pants, is just as erotic as having her unclothe me
.

  “Some things can’t be changed,” I admit. “And me being a dictatorial, overbearing, possessive bastard is one of them. I’d say I was sorry but it wouldn’t be sincere.” When her hands bump up against my cock as she’s threading the belt through the loops, I tell her, “Just ignore it.” I shove my cock down so that it tents out the left side of my pants.

  “I guess I love you in spite of your Emperor Napoleon ways.” With her tongue pushed again her cheek, presumably so she doesn’t start laughing, she finishes buttoning my shirt, leaving the collar upright so that I can fix my tie. It’s the one thing she doesn’t know how to do, but maybe some night I’ll teach her the intricacies of tie knots and how useful they can be.

  “Whatever you’re thinking about, you should stop or you’ll never be able to tuck in your shirt,” she observes.

  “Can’t stop.” I lean down to kiss her. “Don’t want to stop.”

  Shrugging, she picks out a pocket square and tucks it into the suit coat. “I think the story about how you met Frank is the most you’ve ever revealed about yourself. Other than what happened with your mom and dad.”

  “What is it that you want to know? I’ll tell you anything. There will be no secrets between us.” I tuck in my shirt and adjust myself. I’ll deflate…eventually. For now, I’ll live with my erection. There are worse things. She hands me a pair of burgundy and blue striped socks and my hand-stitched Italian wingtips, and I sit on the bench to pull them on.

  “I want to know everything. I want to know which food is your favorite, what your guilty pleasures are, what movies you like the best.”

  “Steak, I don’t believe in guilty pleasures just pleasure, and the Godfather trilogy.” I tie my shoes and stride to the full-length mirror at the end of the dressing room. “My turn. For every piece of information you get from me, I want one in return.”

  “That’s fair.” She peers over my shoulder as I maneuver the silk length of my tie into a Pratt knot.

  “Since I shared with you about Frank, I think it is time for you to tell me why you haven’t moved all your things into my home.”

  She grimaces. “Precisely because it is your home.”

  Her emphasis on the pronoun is not lost on me. “I have no problem selling this place and buying one together with you.”

  I didn’t think her dismay could deepen, but I was wrong. “No, I don’t want that. I just…” She looks around and then meets my gaze in the mirror. “It doesn’t feel like home.”

  The warehouse once served as home base for my import-export business—which really consisted of facilitating the trade of goods that weren’t sanctioned by the government, including things as innocuous as non-FDA approved cheese to art with curious provenance.

  Once I was completely legit, I hired an architect who converted the warehouse into plush, three-level, sun-soaked living quarters for one. Built in the European style, the ground level houses the vehicles and the floor up one flight of stairs houses the kitchen, exercise equipment, and big screen television. A bedroom and office on the second floor loft completes the space.

  I’m asked regularly if I want to sell it. The architect, Adam Markham, is now big time, designing skyscrapers in Dubai and Hong Kong, and the converted warehouse is one of the few residential pieces he’s ever done. I’d never had the urge to sell it before, but it’d be gone in a heartbeat if Tiny didn’t like it.

  I make a mental note to check with my realtor for a more family-friendly residence in the city. Maybe along Central Park. A townhome. I bought property in Connecticut for us where we can spend long weekends and most of the summer, but living outside the city on a regular basis wouldn’t suit either of us.

  Tiny and I love the city, from the green parks to the gray concrete. But I want her happy and content and if a new residence will accomplish that, it’s a small sacrifice to say goodbye to this home.

  She hands me my jacket, but I toss it aside. Picking her up, I carry her to the island of mahogany in the middle of the room and set her down. She’s inches taller than me, but I can look her in the eye better.

  “If you don’t want to move, then make this place your home. Let’s buy new furniture. Hell, let’s get an architect in here and we’ll remake it from the ground up. We’ll dig out the basement and put in a pool. We’ll plant a palm tree on the roof. I don’t care what we do so long as when we’re done, you can walk in here and say ‘I’m glad to be home.’ And if you can’t see yourself ever saying that about this place, then we’ll sell it.” I squeeze her hips for emphasis. “And don’t say a word about the cost because I don’t give a shit about the cost. You could refurnish the entire meatpacking district and I’d—” I pause to correct myself “—we’d still be rich as hell.”

  With a sigh, she curls her fingers in my hair. “So these are part of those things that will change? It’s a lot for me to take in.”

  “Do you love me?” I demand.

  “You know I do.”

  “Then believe every word I say to you is the truth and exactly what I mean.”

  Before she can answer, I hear her phone ring. The Bad Company ringtone signals it’s her stepbrother, Malcolm. Tiny assigns ringtones to all of her callers, not that she has many. I enjoy redoing them.

  “Bad Company” for her drug dealing step-brother; “You’ve Got a Friend” sung by James Taylor—not the later covers—for her old friend Sarah; the theme from the Bodyguard soundtrack for my driver, Steve, who is not so surreptitiously serving as her bodyguard; and last but not least, “Ain’t No Other Man” by Christina Aguilera for me.

  With pressure against my shoulder, she signals she wants to answer the phone. Reluctantly, I lift her down.

  I’m not a fan of Malcolm, but right now I know to step lightly around the subject. She feels tethered to him because he knew her mother. Gritting my teeth, I finish my morning routine. I haven’t shaved yet, but the grungy unshaven look is popular and I answer to no one. Generally I shave so my coarse facial hair doesn’t scratch Tiny’s skin, but perhaps…I stroke the side of my face. Maybe I’ll see how she likes the different texture tonight.

  From the bedroom I hear Tiny’s side of the conversation.

  “No, I didn’t mind that your mom came to the funeral. I thought that was nice of her. How’s she doing?”

  Malcolm’s mother is addicted to gambling and that’s why he’s got his hands in so many different criminal pots—or at least that’s his excuse. Malcolm and Tiny shared a father for a short time when they were teens, but Mitch Hedder, Malcolm’s biological father and Tiny’s stepfather, took off and hasn’t been seen for a long time.

  “No way,” she exclaims. “God, I’m sorry. Where’s he staying?”

  More silence from Tiny’s end.

  “How’s your mom taking it?”

  “Yeah, okay, thanks for the warning.”

  Shrugging into my jacket, I place my phone and wallet in the inside breast pocket and press a button to alert Steve I’ll be ready for a pick-up in ten minutes.

  “What’s that all about?”

  “Mitch is back in town. And he’s staying at the Plaza.”

  Her worried look tells me this is trouble.

  “It’s not your problem.”

  “Malcolm’s family.”

  “No, I’m your family,” I counter.

  “Mitch was part of my life for six years. My stepdad for four of those years. Malcolm says he wants to talk to me about Mom. I can’t deny him that.” She sounds anguished, which is exactly what I’m trying to protect her from.

  I count to ten in my head. And then backwards. This is a tipping point. I either step right or onto a landmine. I can’t demand she not meet with him because she’s an adult and will do what she wants. I struggle to find a compromise we both can live with. “Then promise me you won’t meet him without me.”

  She nods slowly. “Okay, I promise.”

  “Thank you.” I kiss her slowly, because it’s going to have to last me all day. My tongue traces th
e seam of her lips and when she opens, I swoop in to taste her. I should’ve branded her. I should have marked her everywhere—a necklace of suckling bruises made by my mouth that showed everyone that she was mine. I content myself by branding her senses with my lips and fingers. Later tonight I’ll fuck her so hard she won’t remember anything but my name and hers.

  THREE

  NOT FIVE MINUTES AFTER I climb into my car the phone rings. It’s Tiny.

  “Bunny.”

  “Can Steve hear you?” she demands.

  “Doubt it. But the privacy screen isn’t up. Why? Do you want to have phone sex? Because I can be home in five minutes and have you naked in one more.”

  She smothers a laugh. “No, I just don’t want him to know you call me bunny. I get that it’s an endearment, and I guess it is sweet, but it sounds weak. I don’t want Steve to think I’m weak.”

  “No one else is going to call you bunny,” I reassure her. If they did, my fist would be in their mouth before they pronounced the last syllable. “Besides, why do you care what Steve thinks of you?”

  “He’s your friend. I want your friends to think I’m good for you and that I’m not some weak chick that needs saving all the time.” She makes a gagging sound. “Barf. Who wants that?”

  Tiny’s neuroses are strange. “Even if Steve thought you were weaker than a newborn, I’d get rid of him before I’d get rid of you.” In the rearview mirror, I see Steve raise his eyebrows. Apparently he can hear me. I just shrug in response. Everyone should know where my loyalties lie. “Is that what you called about, or are you in need of something?”

  She sighs. “I just got off the phone with Mitch. He wants to see me. He was crying. I couldn’t tell him no.”

  I’m glad we’re on the phone so she can’t see my glare. “It’s been seven years since you last saw him.”

  “I know.” She hesitates and then rushes forward. “He says he has something of hers that I would want.”

  Of course he would say that. He’s manipulating her, but either she doesn’t see it or doesn’t want to. With as much patience as I can muster, I ask, “When and where?”